“Some seep water up the canyon a piece,” he muttered. “Good enough for the hawsses. But I’ll take the canteen an’ git some real water at the Tank, for us.” * * * * * He unsaddled the black stallion and swiftly Rutter followed his example. Rutter got out the food and coffee pot from the Ranger’s saddle bags while the latter, bearing a canteen, started up the canyon to the main “tank.” Ware’s Kid moved silently, for all his high-heeled boots. The canyon floor was of hard-packed earth, but studded with loose stones and he placed his feet carefully. One never knew who might be using the Tanks. From time immemorial it had been one of the favorite watering places of this region. Wild animals and wild men, red and brown and white, came there furtively. He passed close along the left-hand wall, decorated with Indian pictographs and the names of pioneers, and so came to the low cavern in which was the spring-fed well, or “tank.” More cautiously than ever he moved now. The rock apron before the cavern was pitted with _metate_-holes, where prehistoric tribes had ground their corn; rude mortars still used by the Apaches who camped there. It was tricky footing and trickier still inside, where one approached the well-lip over a stone floor worn slick as glass by countless feet. Inside the cavern mouth he squatted for a moment and listened. He heard nothing from without or within and slid his feet carefully forward, balancing himself with left hand upon a rounded slab that divided the cavern in two sections. So he was awkwardly balanced when a sinewy arm shot around his throat from behind and a _hough_ sounded in his ear. A smallish, rather insignificant-seeming figure was Ware’s Kid. But “all whalebone and whang-leather,” as the Rangers who had wrestled with him remarked amazedly; a hundred and ten pounds of wiry, dashingly quick, steel-strong body. Now he moved automatically, fairly shouting, “Indians!” Sideways he whirled, and so the Apache’s knife went wide in its downward drive. Back shot the Ranger’s head, to smash into the Indian’s face. It broke his strangling hold and Ware’s Kid, turning half in air, his feet were sliding so, shot a vicious fist into the Apache’s midriff, then had the buck by the throat and was gripping him about the body with legs closing like scissor-blades and fending off flailing arms with elbows spread. The Apache was powerful, but before he had much opportunity to struggle Ware’s Kid had banged his back-head against the rock. He managed a long, loud, gasping groan. Feebly his knifehand rose. The Ranger loosed the throat for an instant and fumbled for the weapon. It sliced his palm. Then he seized it and buried it in the Indian’s body.